Harry Potter and The Spatula of Doom
by SnogginGodess
Summary: Harry must destroy the Spatula of Doom before Voldemort uses it to turn everybody into pancakes! Very stupid story-but that is the whole point, isn't it?
1. The Legend of the Spatula

Disclaimer: You know this for Chrissakes! I own nothing! Got it? The characters: not mine. Okay. Get it? Got it? Good. Leave me the hell alone. I mean...read and enjoy! Oh, and the Spanko Tree belongs to my friend, Kate.  
  
I wrote this to make fun of Harry Potter. I love J.K. Rowling's work, she is the god of my idolatry (that's Shakespeare, it is :-D) and a WONDERFUL author. I love Harry Potter, therefore I feel that I can make fun of it. If you are offended by people acting "out of character" go away. If you want a good laugh, please read. Thank you. *SMOOOOOCH!*  
  
Harry narrowed his bright green eyes, concentrating on a bit of yellowed parchment in his lap. He sighed, surveying the illegiable scrawl. "Hermoine?" he asked, voice seeping with ill-contained rage.   
  
"Hmmmm?" the girl hummed, absent-mindedly, as she stroked the large cat in her lap with one hand, and twirled long, fuzzy strands of hair around fat fingers with the other hand.  
  
"If you are going to give me copies of your notes MAKE SURE I CAN READ THEM!" Harry bellowed. A few first years scattered, a second year girl fell out of her chair, and everybody stared at the screaming boy. "What the bloody hell are you all LOOKING AT?" Harry asked them, and they quickly returned to their own business. "Thats better," Harry grumbled. Nobody wanted to upset the boy who lived.  
  
"God, Harry," Hermoine rolled her eyes. "I have to copy notes for you and Ron and myself so you should be happy you even HAVE notes because if you and dunder-head over there," she paused to jab a thumb at Ron, who was tentatively prodding a spider with his wand, "would just copy notes instead of talking or drawing or whatever, you wouldn't need to complian about my handwriting, 'cause the notes would be in your own handwriting, but as you're too lazy to take notes, I'm damned to do it for you."  
  
"That was the longest sentence ever," Harry yawned, inspecting his fingernails. "And I will not let you take that tone with me. Do you know who I am?" He raised his eyebrows up high, daring her to answer.  
  
"You're Harry Potter," Hermoine mumbled.  
  
"Did ya forget your name, Harry?" Ron asked, innocently. "It's Harry. You know, I have never forgotten my name." A few people stared at him, but Ron took no notice. He bent over and began twirling a poker by the fire through his bony fingers.  
  
"I'm Harry Potter," said Harry Potter. "I am the Boy-Who-Lived. I demand some respect!"   
  
Hermoine rolled her eyes.  
  
"The Boy-Who-Lived! I DEMAND respect!" Harry repeated. "I can't study this!" With that, he rolled the parchment across the floor, so it stopped at Ron's feet.  
  
"I'm not studying either," Hermoine told Harry, quietly. "This test is going to be easy. It's simple. Pointless, really." She yawned, and went back to twisting her hair.   
  
Harry, anger forgotten, gaped at her. So did Ron. "You're not studying?" they asked, amazed, in unison.  
  
"No. Why would I?" Hermoine asked, braiding the fuzzy mess on her head.  
  
"'Cause you're Hermoine Granger, smartest girl in school," Ron said, slowly, as if attempting to explain a complicated math problem to a potato.   
  
"If I'm the smartest girl in school, I needn't study," Hermoine replied in an "uhhhh....duhhhhhh!" voice.  
  
"Studying is for losers, though Hermoine!" Harry said. "As you are a loser, I think you should study. The other losers follow you. You are the loser queen. If you don't study, nobody else will. If nobody studies, everybody will fail!"  
  
"So?" Hermoine asked, boredly.  
  
"So my mum'll beat me if I fail," Ron said, brightly.  
  
"Yes Hermoine," Harry said. "Study and save Ron from a beating from his mommy."  
  
"I won't fail," Hermoine said confidently. "The day I fail will be the day You-Know-Who turns up in the middle of Transfiguration, grabs Harry, disappears to an underground lair, and beats him to a bloody pulp with The Spatula of Doom."  
  
"The Spatula of Doom exists?" Ron asked, awestruck.  
  
"I though it was just a legend," Harry whispered, eyes wide.  
  
"No," Hermoine said, sitting up straight. The two boys moved closer to her chair, and sat, eyes wide. "Well," Hermoine started. "Two hundred-twenty-seven years, three months, two weeks, six days, two hours and three minutes ago, an old disgruntled man named Hugh Jass got mad at his wife. She had made him stewed-prune-soup for dinner, and it made him poop. This upset Hugh. He got even angrier when she fed him chocolate laxatives. So he marched off into the Great Big Woods of Alabama to catch some squirrel meat. When he couldn't find a squirrel he got angrier and angrier. He decided to beat his wife. But most unfortunately, he had nothing to beat her with. He took out his wand, and walked over to a Spanko Tree. He transfigured it into a....spatula!" Ron and Harry gasped. "Yes, a spatula," Hermoine continued. "He put an evil spell on it. The um...Doomed Spatula Spell. Hugh went home, and killed his wife with it. But the spatula turned on him, and killed him as well."  
  
Ron and Harry had turned rather pale by this point. Hermoine smiled. "They say that only a Dark Wizard can use and control it. Of course, a boy named Tom Riddle was often seen, strolling the corridors with an ancient spatula. I'd watch out, Harru," Hermoine said, voice quiet. "The spatula just might get you."  
  
Ron and Harry screamed. Hermoine laughed. "Oh, come off it! I was making that up!"  
  
"Really?" Ron and Harry asked, trembling.  
  
"No," Hermoine said, seriously. "Really, Harry. Watch out for The Spatula of Doom." 


	2. Not PANCAKES!

Harry and Ron had trouble sleeping that night. Every little noise scared them out of their wits. What if it was the Spatula of Doom, coming to beat them to a bloody pulp?  
  
Incrediably bleary-eyed, the two boys stumbled out of bed and down to breakfast. Hermione was already sitting there, munching on toast, and looking quite refreshed.   
  
"Top of the mornin' to ye," she chortled in a horrid Scottish accent. "Ah, but the wee laddies didnae sleep, did they?"  
  
"Shuddup," Harry whined. "I didn't give you permission to talk to me did I?" He grabbed his solid gold spoon, fork and knife out of his pocket, and began carefully spooning oatmeal into a gilded bowl.  
  
Ron's eyes were overbright, and unfocused as he blindly grasped for food. He began to stuff his face. About one-third of the foos actually made it to his mouth. The rest fell in his lap.  
  
Hermione sniffled and began concentrating on her breakfast. She had thought her Scottish accent was funny. But NOOOO. The wonderful Potter didn't like it, so she couldn't speak like a Scot anymore. Or else Harry might throw another tantrum. Hermione shuddered as she remembered three weeks ago when Fred and George had offered Harry a Canary Cream. Harry had screamed, knocked over their tray of candies, and stomped on them until they were nothing more than gooey, gloopy, yucky, and totally smashed into the carpet. Then, Harry wrote to Mrs. Weasley, who sent a Howler telling the "STUPID IDIOTS TO LEAVE POOR HARRY ALONE! MY WORD, THAT BOY HAS GONE THROUGH SO MUCH! OOOH, YOU'RE LUCKY THERE ARE APPARATING LAWS UP THERE OR ELSE I'D APPARATE MYSELF RIGHT UP THERE AND THROTTLE THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF YOU!" A tear fell onto Hermione's toast. She felt...Scottish-ish today, and Harry had ruined it.  
  
Her musing was interrupted by a shriek. "OMIGOD RON!" Harry was pointing, horrified. Ron turned very pale, and a large glob of something fell out of his mouth.   
  
"What?" he asked, eyes tearing up. What is Harry decided that Ron's freckles were annoying? Why, Ron would have to slice them off. Or what if Harry had come up with another "brilliant plan"? Something like, oh, let's say, 'Push Ron Off The Tallest Balcony And See How Far He Bounces.' Just last week, Harry had put his "Redheads Are Flammable' theory into play. Ron was still nursing burns.  
  
"You're eating PANCAKES!" Harry yelped, overturning his gilded bowl, his gold utensils clattered to the ground.  
  
"SO?" Ron and Hermione asked in unison.  
  
"PANCAKES ARE MADE WITH A SPATULA! AN EVIL ONE!" Harry screamed. Everyone in the Great Hall was looking at him.  
  
"Ah, Harry," Seamus said. "Don't worry. I ate a pancake, and I'm fine." Silly Seamus should have known better than to tempt fate. If he'd have said, 'Oh, I'm horrible! My eyes are twitchy, my abdomen is on fire, my arm is limp, and I've lost feeling in the left side of my body!" he probably would have been fine.  
  
But Seamus hadn't said that. So then, with a loud *QUACK!* Seamus turned into a waffle.  
  
"Quack?" Ron asked, failing to notice the immediate problem. Which was of course, that he, too, would most likely be turned into a waffle too. "I always thought waffles said 'SPLAT!'"   
  
"No, stupid!" Hermione chided, not noticing the immmediate problem either. "You see, shovels go 'SPLAT!'. Waffles go 'Quack!' Duh!"  
  
Harry looked on, disgusted, as Ron's face began to sort of squish, and then with a loud *QUACK!* Ron turned into a waffle.   
  
"Save me Harry!" the Ron-Waffle called out. "Destroy the Spatula of Doom! AHHHHHH!"  
  
Hermione had just picked Ron up, and was about to bite into him, but Harry smacked him out of her hands. "Jeezus, 'Mione! That's Ron!"  
  
"Oh," Hermione smiled stupidly. "Guess we better save him, huh?" 


End file.
